The Way They Leave
by Jezzi.tofadeawayagain
Summary: After leaving an emotionally abusive long-term relationship with Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger struggles to remember how to be herself once again. An experiment/sketch of the state of mind caused by emotional abuse and the healing process. Written for DFW's Never Apologising For Our Wild Nikita Gill Challenge in response to Gill's "The Way You Have Loved".


**The Way They Leave**

The way you have loved  
speaks volumes about you.  
The way they leave speaks  
volumes about them.

Your love is not poison.  
Their inability to appreciate it _is_.

-Nikita Gill, _The Way You Have Loved_

Don't let me dangle at a cruel angle, my feet don't touch the floor.  
You do such damage… how do you manage to crawl in, back for more?  
How do you do it? I think I'm through it, then I'm back against the wall.  
What kind of man loves like this?

-Florence Welch, What Kind of Man

* * *

She's got her cat in the car, and her favorite books. Her passport. Her old teddy bear. A duffel bag with a few changes of clothes – she forgot to grab knickers – her favorite shoes, and her coat. Her purse, her photo albums. But not her wand. He took her wand, said he'd get rid of it for her, said he didn't want her to hurt herself or anyone else and he took it and she held her hands up and what's a witch without a wand, no witch at all, that's what – she can't think that – she doesn't have her wand but she's got her cat and her car and she's driving away and she hears someone saying "I'm free, I'm free, I'm free, I'm free, I'm free, I'm free, I'm free, I'm free, I'm free" and she wonders if her disc player is skipping but there aren't any bumps in the road and it's her voice and she can't see the road very well because it's blurry – why is it blurry? "I'm free, I'm free, I'm free, I'm free."

* * *

the funny part about it all is that she knew he was bad for her from the start. knew that he had bad habits and beliefs and tendencies and and and and and

she ignored her instincts because she's rational and thought should supersede feeling but feeling is all she has now, because thought can't be trusted, it got her here in the first place and she can't stop thinking can't stop wishes she could stop thinking stop laughing from her spot on the floor next to the empty shelf, sitting in a sea of books and boxes – a mess that's so taboo she flinches even thinking about him seeing it – can't stop thinking

can't stop laughing because there's no funny part, it's not funny, it was never funny never healthy never meant to be never rational, fuck rationality – can't stop thinking – the rational choice was completely irrational, a choice she kept on making, the last choice she made in years. and laughing feels like gasping, like a trout in a dry river, but no – not suffocating. Not anymore. laughing feels like breathing, like drinking air to try and make up for years of breathing too shallowly so she could make herself smaller, make herself less noticeable less monitored to make herself less less less

can't stop thinking

the funny part is that she's got two more days to get out of this house before he comes back and why does she still care about his deadlines, his rules, she doesn't know, she guesses it's because he snapped so she jumps or he'll snap. and she's wasting her time gasping on the floor.

she doesn't believe in Divination – the Divine? – its irrational – there is no future, no past, just present and she. can. get. through. this. moment. if. only. she. doesn't think – can't stop thinking – about what came before or what comes after. but she saw this coming, back when he consorted with insects, when he opened a cabinet door and let Death in, that day at the lake when he told her about what his friends used to do to stray kneazle kittens and he laughed and still she chose – it's irrational – to think his friends not him, he's different now and it's not funny. she saw this coming but she called it irrational and then threw rationality away because apparently can't stop thinking can't stop – apparently she's that easily manipulated, she trusts too easily, sees too much good and believes the best of people when she shouldn't, no, she shouldn't, and now she's not the same, not herself, will she ever be the same?

who is she? he'd laugh if he saw her now. is she the funny part?

* * *

it mocks her. this childhood bedroom with all the happy pictures of a girl who used to be, before, before what? there's a picture of them on the nightstand from when they visited Stonehenge and they look happy but really he'd been complaining all day and she'd been trying to make the best of it because she'd wanted to go there with him to share it with him, she'd always wanted – it doesn't matter now.

her friends and family are so happy she's home, so supportive and helpful and present – her cousins haven't been present like this in years but that's her fault because he never liked company never liked meeting them never never and she just… they are so happy she's free she's free she's free she's free to what? free to live in her childhood bedroom again like the child he's told her she is. that's not free.

she wakes up one day and can't bend down can't breathe right because her entire rib cage is tight a restriction a spasm and it feels so normal to not be able to breathe and she's so relieved but also it hurts, she likes breathing she can't say it out loud but she likes breathing deeply again. her dad's friend the chiropractor tells her it's the emotional center and her mind is her body and she needs to relax and she thinks it's irrational

she can't stand all the decorations on the walls it's too messy and if he sees it and if the dishes aren't clean right after dinner – no they can't stay overnight for morning, doesn't her mother understand they can't they can't that's not allowed, no no no no no. do they ever turn the television off, there's too much sound and too many people and too many objects and she's never been claustrophobic but there's just too much too many too much and don't they understand it's not them she's really yelling at it's her, it's her.

he gave her wand back the day she left the flat for good but she hasn't used it since because what's a witch without a wand – can't stop thinking – wandless less less less

Stop. Thinking. It's irrational. This isn't like you, stop being irrational.

can't stop thinking

* * *

she reads all the articles about him in the papers because she needs to know where he is and what he's doing so it doesn't take her off guard. he sends owls too often and some are nice and kind like she knows he could be, some say thank you some say how are you some make her feel like she's poison some say this isn't my problem anymore you aren't my problem anymore – was her love a problem? – can't stop thinking – some say you just used me, but some are nice and kind and say I hope you're doing well.

then suddenly the articles stop because he's gone off to France or America somewhere for business and he was always doing that, always leaving always gone until he came back and even then it felt like he was still gone sometimes and sometimes she wished he was gone – it's irrational? but sometimes she missed him. she misses him she thinks, misses the routine of reading the articles or receiving his owls.

two weeks after the last article, she finally admits that she misses the routine more than she misses him.

* * *

it takes her three months to sleep soundly. to slowly realize the truth about the way it ended. the way he pushed her out and made her believe it was all her fault. He made her leave physically so that it reinforced his claims that it was her fault and not his. How rational. How subtle. How cruel and cowardly. That was the way he left.

It takes her four months to finally slow the rambling in her mind, to relearn how to stop thinking.

* * *

They make her talk about it. At the pub, at Quidditch games, before they go to the cinema, over sushi or wine and cheese. They acknowledge her when she says she's made plenty of mistakes, too, and they listen as she talks through it and tries to let it go. Her hippie aunt told her to send him love and light every time she thinks of him and then move steadily forward, and she thought it was irrational.

But her mother and her old Transfiguration teacher told her the same. And so did her dad's friend the chiropractor. And the lady at the market who'd been eavesdropping while she and Ginny chose a bottle of wine, who'd looked as weary as she felt and felt somehow kindred. And when she started doing yoga because it seemed like a good, self-healing thing to do – well, love, light, and live on started to replace "less less less" and "it's irrational" in her head.

She reads books again. Laughs more than she has in years. Enjoys her days a little bit more.

It still sneaks up on her sometimes, when she leaves dirty dishes in the sink overnight and goes downstairs to make her morning tea and the rambling starts again and she can't stop it and

She yells at her mother for something stupid, lets out her anger on her mother and it's not fair. It's not fair to do that to the woman who has let her come home with no questions, the woman who still comforts a grown woman as if she were a child, the woman with the hugs that feel like home. She yells at her mother because her mother will always love her, even if she hurts her, and she feels guilty for it rambles again loses all the progress and

it's bad when she gets an owl from him after weeks and weeks of no word and it feels fresh like it's happened all over again, who is she? and she's gasping for air again and her stupid rib cage cramps again and now she knows it's her emotional center even if it's irrational it's right and she has to stop letting him affect her this way she has to stop she has to

Stop. Thinking.

She's proud of herself when it sneaks up on her less frequently, and when she doesn't read the articles that resurface when he returns to the country.

She starts to trust in rationality again, to trust in the friends and family that tell her who she is repeatedly, like a mantra. That she's the girl who goes all in. The girl who loves with her whole heart, who chooses to trust and doesn't falter. The girl who can't be easily swayed once she has committed. That she's not toxic, but rather love and light. That she'll live on.

She's free.

* * *

Author's Note: Originally posted on AO3. Thanks to the powers that be at DFW for posting this challenge, and for somehow assigning me the poem I really needed to read/inspiring me to write something that has helped me heal.

HUGE thank you to QuinTalon79 for beta reading this at extremely short notice! You're amazing!

Dedicated to victims of abuse of any kind who are reading this. You're not alone.


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